


Oklahoma

by buck_y_bucks



Category: Pre-Series Wincest - Fandom, Supernatural, Wincest - Fandom, weecest - Fandom
Genre: Hunt, Incest, Jealousy, M/M, Possesive, Season 1, Strong Language, curse words, protective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 11:41:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1856778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buck_y_bucks/pseuds/buck_y_bucks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tendons of Sam’s neck flex under Dean’s fingers, and that pebble in the older hunter’s heart is more like a boulder now, so heavy his lips are weighted towards his brother’s. “I’m sorry,” Dean whispers, but he closes his eyes and holds Sam still because he needs this, he’s a starving man in this Oklahoma plain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oklahoma

**Author's Note:**

> I'm new to Ao3 and would appreciate any and all forms of feedback. Constructive criticism greatly appreciated. This is a new writing style I was trying my hand at and enjoyed very deeply.

When Dean and Sam slink their way into Oklahoma they’re so bone-weary even the road looks exhausted underneath the rumbling tires of the Impala. They drive through some shabby town called Guthrie, shingles falling off roofs and several houses near collapse. Gaggles of inner-city youth walk on the sides of the road. They drive until they reach Nichols Hills, which is on the edge of Oklahoma’s state capitol. Sam pointedly says he wants to drive by their congress building.  
When they decide on a Motel 6 Dean’s eyes are stinging and his stomach is growling. The parking lot has lots of debris blowing through it, cigarette butts stubbed out on side-walk curbs. Dean kind of thinks the whole town smells stale, like acrid smoke and runny sewage. The stars are dim in Oklahoma, all the bright lights out-shining the sky.  
“I never liked Oklahoma,” Sam mumbles, opening the trunk of the Impala as his cheeks split in a heavy yawn. His duffel is a million pounds where it rests on his shoulders and he staggers towards their room, 216C, which just happens to be on the third floor. Sam doesn’t trust the elevator and instead takes the stairs, clomp of his massive feet on the concrete deafening. He hopes Oklahoma is a deep sleeper, “When are we supposed to meet those guys?”  
“Tomorrow morning over breakfast and coffee. Bobby said they’d have all the case information.” Sam grunts an unintelligible response as he fumbles the door of their motel room open, thumping his bag to the immediate left of the doorway. He collapses lamely on the nearest bed, his legs sticking almost completely off the edge of it. Sam grumbles, pulling himself forward and kicking his feet childishly until the boots are dislodged and fling free.  
Dean muffles a laugh on the sleeve of his jacket, peeling it off and thudding onto his back, the metal bed-frame squealing in protest. His skull cracks against the wooden head-board and Sam chuckles, pulling the string on the bed-side lamp. The small room is plunged into darkness, both of their breathing loud. Oklahoma is a quiet sleeper. Dean feels like his heart beat is too loud in his chest and he turns on his side to face Sam, only spotting the whites of his eyes in the darkness.  
“Sam, do you think we’re in over our heads?” His voice is rough, and he reaches up to scratch at the scruff lining the edge of his jaw. It rubs the pads of his fingers raw. Sam doesn’t respond, but Dean hears his breathy exhale. “I mean- with the other hunters? We’ve heard some- crazy stories.”  
“We’re the Winchesters,” Sam says lightly, the bed wailing as the bulk of his form shifts away from Dean. With his eyes adjusted to the darkness the older hunter can see the wide, large slope of his shoulder and the fall and rise of his rib-cage. “We can handle it. We always have.”  
Dean doesn’t say, ‘we always handle a mess by making a bigger mess’ because Sam already knows that’s true. They’re always trying to take the color out of it, make the picture black and white. There are so many more shades on the spectrum. Instead of saying anything Dean rolls onto his back, squinting at the dark ceiling. He counts spider-web cracks until he falls asleep. He imagines each one is a life he’s saved. (There is a staggering amount of lives Dean Winchester has saved. Once he saved a little girl at Taco Bell who was choking on a taco. There is also a staggering amount of lives Dean Winchester has taken away. He killed a demon wearing a little boy and then drank his way through Nevada.)  
Sam takes the first shower the next morning and uses every lick of hot water. By the time they leave the room the sun is rising on the horizon, looming over the small buildings that litter Downtown Oklahoma. The city is awake and there is a gardener mowing the Motel 6 lawn, wide-billed sun hat casting deep shadows across his face. Dean and Sam get into the Impala, quickly shedding the extra layers. The Oklahoma sun is a merciless beast, the air thick with moisture and leaving Dean with the sensation of never being dry. The air is heavy in his mouth and it smells fat, trapped in the blazing confines of the Impala’s leather seats.  
The i-Hop they’re meeting at is only a few blocks away and the brothers sit in complete silence. Dean thinks the utter quiet is more deafening than any rock-music, so he blares Metallica so loud Sam scowls at him. Dean thinks getting reprimanded is better than not getting anything at all, so he turns up the volume dial and hums along with the song. Sam sighs loudly, but he lets his shoulder droop enough to brush against Dean’s every time he inhales. When they park Dean wants to say, I’m sorry I messed everything up for you, but he remembers the set of Sam’s shoulders in bed last night when he pretend he couldn’t see his baby brother crying. He doesn’t deserve the forgiveness Sam will surely offer if he does apologize, so he digs the blunt of his fingernails into the pliant flesh of his forearm. It leaves crescent shapes and Dean is relieved he can still feel something, other than grief and longing and guilt. (So much guilt it weighs heavy in Dean’s heart. Sometimes he falls to his knees with the weight of it, struggling to breathe despite the crush of depression on his rib-cage. Whiskey sorrow sloshes around in his gut when he manages to find his feet again.)  
Sam moves to get out of the car, but stops when the curve of Dean’s jaw tics anxiously. The younger man sets his palm on the curve of Dean’s knee, bangs falling loosely into his eyes as he smiles at his brother. (Brother. Brother. Brother. Dean, remember it’s your brother. Brother. Brother. Brother.) Dean thinks he could drink a whole pint of bourbon blues and still feel high on the thought of Sam’s hazel eyes alone. Sam’s gotten so close his breath is warm on Dean’s collar bone, his thin fingers tight around his brothers knee cap. Something territorial roars to life in Dean and he stoops lower, meets Sam’s dull eyes with his own candy-apple ones.  
“You and me, Sam. Us against the world.” Sam nods, his hair flopping onto his face. Dean laughs and nonchalantly pushes it away, tries to pretend the feel of Sam’s fingertips pressing into his denim-clad flesh isn’t driving him wild. Dean leans away, breath fast as he expels it from his nose, quickly getting out of the car. Sam sits, abandoned in the front seat for only a few seconds. He crawls out of the open driver’s side door.  
“Us against the world.” Sam repeats hollowly, voice baritone as he walks towards the entrance. Dean shuts the Impala’s door, curls his hands into fists on the hood and tries to cram all the unwanted feelings down his throat. He wonders, shallowly, if he were to open his mouth to wide would all the compressed words come spilling from his lips? Dean swallows hard. (There’s a part of him that wants that to happen.) The older hunter follows the trail of his little brother into the i-Hop.  
Dean imagines he’s breathing in the dust kicked up by Sam’s angry heels, tries to push the swell of anxiety down with a forceful hand. It fights back, chewing at the insides of Dean’s stomach lining. Sam is already sitting in a booth, a lithe, able-bodied young man in front of him. . Dean sits beside Sam, who scoots over so far his arm touches the opposite wall. Dean wishes there was Metallica to blare. Dean wishes Sam would look at him, show he still acknowledged the flesh and bone of his brother beside him even if it was only to fuel the hatred in his gut. Anything.  
The man introduces himself a Jamir, and he’s got a voice like slick honey and petroleum gas. It’s deeper than Dean would’ve thought possible, tanned skin pulled tight over a bone frame. Dean thinks this boy is too young to be in this line of work- (John’s voice is so loud in his head, protect Sam, and always protect Sam. You put his life ahead of yours, got it, Dean? You got that?) The pebble of insecurity in his chest turns into a stone, heavy enough that Dean’s spine bows. He waits for the reassuring snap of vertebra when it all becomes too much to bear.  
Sam and Jamir talk about the case- witches- but Dean just keeps swallowing down the words welling in his throat, because Sam has syrup on the corner of his bottom lip and Dean wants to lick it off, but his mouth is so dry and (I’m sorry, I took you away from Jess, Sam. I’m sorry I let you get hurt. I’m sorry, it’s all my fault. I’m sorry I love you. I’m sorry, Sammy. Please forgive me.)  
Dean eats a whole stack of pancakes and Sam says, “Slow down, Dean” so Dean orders another plate and eats them all, just so Sam will look at him and sigh, roll his eyes and say “You’re such a pain in the ass, Dean” and Dean will smile smugly but his heart will feel warm because he’s glad he’s still here because Sam is here and he’ll do whatever it takes to keep Sammy happy. Whatever it takes.  
They pick up the tab and Sam lets his shoulder bump against Dean’s as they leave, and the older hunter feels his tongue fumbling in his throat and he hopes Oklahoma isn’t a judgmental lover, but he’s seen the white picket signs buried in church grass and he knows he’s just fooling himself.  
The tendons of Sam’s neck flex under Dean’s fingers, and that pebble in the older hunter’s heart is more like a boulder now, so heavy his lips are weighted towards his brother’s. “I’m sorry,” Dean whispers, but he closes his eyes and holds Sam still because he needs this, he’s a starving man in this Oklahoma plain. Sam’s lips are soft underneath his and he jumps minutely at the first press of skin. Someone whistles nearby. Dean waits for Sam to pull away, to bring up his palm and hit it against Dean’s cheek, smack some sense into his brother because ‘this is Oklahoma and we’re brothers’. Sam does not. Instead he winds his arms around Dean’s neck, his long fingers scratching at his big brother’s scalp and maybe here, in Oklahoma, they can pretend to be just lovers. Because Oklahoma is unaware of the DNA, coursing through their veins, and unless she decides to take a blood-test, Sam and Dean won’t tell her.  
And that boulder in Dean’s chest sinks down to the size of a pebble once again, light enough he can stand up straight to cup Sam’s cheek bones in his hand.  
“I’m sorry,” Dean mumbles, pressing reverent kisses to Sam’s chapped, bitten lips, “I’ve ruined everything for you.. I-“ Sam slams his mouth to Dean’s again, blood hot underneath his skin, so hot he wonders if Dean will burn after touching him. If skin will melt from bone and reveal strong muscle underneath. And here, in front of an i-hop they pretend to be anything but brothers, because when the dust truly settles, they’ve loved each other from the start. And the dust never truly settles in windy Oklahoma.


End file.
